Deadly Pursuits: Potter and Evans
by Branw3n
Summary: She was an assassin, a cold, heartless, menacing killer. He was an Auror, enlisted to subdue her before she executes her mission; destroy the most influential and important man in the Wizarding World. (l/j, AU-ish) *Upload! 05-06-03*
1. Prologue

Deadly Pursuits: Potter and Evans ****

by: Branw3n

****

Disclaimer: This came to me while I was viewing MTV and happened to come upon an ad for that A. Banderas and L. Lui movie, 'Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever'. This is loosely based on that flick and since I've never seen it, I can't possibly own it. All characters that seem familiar are not in any way mine. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling and the creator of Ecks vs. Sever.

****

Summary: She was an assassin, a cold, heartless, menacing killer. He was an Auror, enlisted to subdue her before she executes her mission; destroy the most influential and important man in the Wizarding World. (l/j, AU-ish)

****

AU-because although this is an l/j fic, it will be set in 2002 or sometime in the now. And also because the Wizarding World has incorporated Muggle technology into their system, especially used by the Aurors.

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Prologue

The incessant waiting disturbed him to no end. The suffocatingly strong scent of artificially manufactured fragrance of lemon worsened his migraine. Office buildings were all alike. The steel walls and framework exuded a hostility that the rich oak doors and exotic tapestries tried so desperately to ensconce.

He tugged at his tie, nervous, his azure robes uncomfortable. It was scalding, though he knew that the air conditioning was turned on high. He glanced nervously at the three surrounding people beside him; two men and a woman.

They wore matching robes, their uniform. All dark black. The men were cousins, tall muscular, dark hair and eyes, sinister. The woman, though, was the complete opposite. Lean, petite with enormous sapphire eyes, pouty lips and platinum blonde hair which she wore in a short bob with bangs long enough to cover her eyes.

They were his bodyguards, the female seemed out of place and unsuitable yet he had seen what she could do. She could take out an armed man in less time than it took to blink.

Ding.

He sighed, relieved, the more he stayed in one place, the easier a target he was for those lunatics who wanted him dead.

J. Elliot Sheridan was an important and rich man. He had appeared from nowhere and quickly rose in standing in the Wizarding Society, his money talked and anyone who was anyone bowed down to it.

Sure, his Galleons were made from the blood of innocents and through swindling big time crime lords and the like, but he didn't care. He deserved it. With his smarts, he actually cornered the black market and those pretentious and self-assured rats in the underground had never even suspected him.

They boarded the elevator and he felt the claustrophobia he had tried so hard to suppress consume him. He had this eternal fear of elevators since he was a child. He had seen this one movie and he had from then on feared that the cable that held the car up would sever and he would drop to his death.

The doors closed and John pressed the cold metal button that would take them to the twenty-fifth floor. 

He unconsciously held his breath and directed his smarmy gaze on his tiny bodyguard.

What was her name again? 

People like him were just not supposed to speak to stock under their employ. It was a general unspoken rule, but this one was different, beautiful. And he loved gorgeous women. He took them to his bed nightly. This one would be no different.

He could sense her urge to squirm beneath his gaze but she kept her professionalism and disregarded his wanton gaze.

Then it happened.

The cart abruptly stopped then blacked out, engulfing them in a sucking veil of darkness. His eyes widened. What more would go wrong?

Henry incessantly pressed the emergency button as his relative grasped at the fire engine red telephone, yelling into it.

"The line's cut, sir," John finally concluded, setting the phone down with no less asperity when he picked it up.

He glared at the simpleton. As if **he** didn't know that. He gave Henry a sharp glance and received a helpless shrug in response. He whipped his head towards the security camera located above their heads and glared. It was not functioning as could be expected.

He heard a soft cry of pain from one of the men at his side and he nearly expected Henry to suck at his finger in pain from pushing that damn button too much.

What he saw frightened him, yet did not surprise him at the very least. He only wondered why it hadn't happen any sooner.

Henry fell face forward onto the floor and he could hear a sickening crack as the man's nose broke as it impacted with the floor. His eyes widened as he saw the cause of the bulky man's fall. A bullet hole at the back of head, directly opposite his forehead.

"Oh, God."

He spun and saw John grab furiously at the pistol attached to a holster on his hip but it was too late. A bullet hit him squarely on his forehead, right between his eyes.

"Shit," he redirected his gaze towards the direction from where the bullet came and his countenance paled as the slip of a girl who was his bodyguard lowered the pistol and regarded him with an expressionless stare.

She pocketed the gun and he saw this as an opportunity to bargain. "Look, I don't know what you want but I know you want me dead. But whatever your employer's offering you, I'll pay twice the amount. You know I can, you've seen my accounts. I'll triple it, even."

He was frantic and she could smell the fear on him. Yet, she was unfazed. Money was not an option, never was. Even if she was what he thought all of her kind were, she knew he'd never fulfil his promise. He'd hand her over to the Aurors the moment they exited the cart, that is if she didn't kill him first. 

But that would cause to much of a commotion, she'd be caught in seconds. She wasn't as stupid as he would like to think she was.

"So, what about it?"

She conventionally removed the scimitar and cinquedea as if she had done this before, he could see the casualness in her movements, her expertise, an aptitude that her seraphic features belied.

And then he knew it. He was dead. Destined to die in this cart by her hands. The entire thing was planned. The meeting, the blackout, the disconnected emergency systems, her job application…

And he could think no more for fear paralyzed him.

Then she moved, her actions graceful and choreographed, like a dance. Her tiny frame was an advantage in the limited room that the elevator cart allotted. She was fast, her speed was inhuman and borne of years of training.

When she rammed the cinquedea into his heart, he could not have tracked her movements if he had even tried. The last thing he saw before his death was her face, placid as ever. It frightened him, added even more to his fear of his death.

She was human, he could feel the heat emanating off of her, she was no android nor a genetically altered human, not even under the Imperius curse. She was a cold, unfeeling bitch, trained in the art of death and surrounded by it.

She stared down at him, her face blank, there was no contempt, pity nor did she revel in his agony. She did not care and that made her the best assassin he had ever encountered. She would tell no one of her employer nor back out. 

She was the perfect killer.

She pulled the sword from his heart and brought it down sideways across his neck, decapitating him. She would rather have not, too gory and suspicious, but it was what was called for. 

Orders.

She took the head by the hair and placed it in a canvas bag she had hid in her trench coat. The coppery scent of blood did not unnerve her, the smell was too constant a presence in her life that she was as accustomed to it as she was to the moon.

Strapping the bag across her chest, she pressed her back to one side of the cart and ran, fast, kicking her leg out and using her momentum to propel herself up the small square chute that led out of the cart and on top of it.

She grasped at its edges with both gloved hands, falling just short of completely escaping the tiny room. Without so much as a huff, she pulled herself up and onto the steel roof.

Grasping at the small rubber ball in her pocket, she drew back her arm and threw it, aiming for the small hatch which was rarely used and if so, only utilized by elevator technicians and led to the building's roof.

She waited patiently, hoping the soft yet resonating sound the ball made while bouncing off the walls wouldn't be detected from outside. A few seconds passed and she deftly captured the tiny sphere, pocketing it. 

A moment or two later, the hatch opened with an irritating noise borne only of unused and unoiled hinges. A shaft of light poured through the gap and she squinted, momentarily blinded, yet anxious.

Then she could see it. An unassuming and ordinary in any sense of the word leather backpack. It fell towards her and she adroitly caught it, hugging it to her chest as she rummaged through it, searching its contents. 

She found them buried under a pile of armory. Red metal rope clamps, just large enough for her hands to slip through. Palming the pair, she jammed in her own bag into it, taking care not to break the decapitated head's skull. It would be too messy and she had no time to clean up the evidence.

Shouldering the pack she aptly locked the clamps in place, ritualistically extending her right arm, locking the right clamp in place, releasing the left, shimmying up the length of cable and locking it in place, all the while releasing the right one to move up another foot.

She did this without thinking. She didn't have to. She had been trained to do all this as a child. Her trade was part of a family legacy, she knew nothing else and would never know better. She was the youngest of a brood of three. Her only brother the oldest and the only one apart from her father and sister who thought of the vocation as horrendous, though, unlike Petunia, he had never backed out of his obligation.

He had been the only person brave enough to even attempt to contradict her father's teachings, his, all of their, principles.

He lost, yet he had tried, which was more than she could ever do. She had been taught never to talk back to her parents, but if she could, she would not have known what to say, and still did not know the error of her ways. 

Killing was natural for her, she was the cold-blooded wretched excuse of a human being to most she had met. Yet their thoughts were not entirely wrong and she did not blame them for the curses they threw at her, she killed all of her casual acquaintances. She never had friends and those she wished to accept she was unsure she could trust.

Ridding her mind of all of her fanciful thoughts, she unhooked one clamp from the thick cable and dug her fingers into the opening on the roof above her head. She grasped at the cable with her thighs and released the other clamp then having her other hand follow first.

She pulled herself up and was not surprised to feel larger albeit leather sheathed fingers grab onto her wrists and aid her in pulling herself completely out of the shaft.

She looked into strange golden brown eyes and nodded appreciatively at him. He quickly slid the duct close and stood, turning towards a tiny cement shack that stood to their right. 

She placed the clamps back into the bag and turned to face the corrugated metal roofed shack and breathed a sigh of relief as their other associate exited the shed, slamming the door in her wake, nearly causing the door to separate from its hinges.

She afforded the pair a grin that suited her flushed cheeks, which she had attained from hastening up the forty-floor building without causing a sound in less than five minutes.

They both nodded at her and turned around, anticipating their getaway vehicle to arrive any second from now.

A strong gust of wind blew over the building's rooftop as the trio stood directly at the heart of the edifice's heliport. That same gale knocked off her companion's long, wavy auburn wig to reveal lustrous light blonde hair tied up in a complicated updo to prevent tendrils of hair to give her away.

She decided to take the advice from her cohort as she took the two-inch hairpins from her hair and shook it out in the wind, her straight blonde hair a golden trail behind her.

She removed her blonde wig, taking care to undo the bobby pins that held the wig in place. She did not tie her hair beneath the wig, and as soon as she removed the wig, her crimson locks tumbled to her shoulder blades.

Simultaneously, they both removed the contact lenses from their eyes. An azure color to hide her emerald pair and for her associate a dark chestnut that concealed her verdant orbs. They threw the lenses to the floor and crushed the glass with the heel of their boots, leaving no trace of what had once been.

The wigs were of no concern, they left no traces on them, unlike the optical glass, they would not leave any DNA traces for the law to gather and convict them for. 

Though, it was a precautionary measure for they both didn't exist. 

The humming resonance of a helicopter's mechanism alerted them of the arrival of their escape vehicle. All three watched in silence as it neared them, a cable-roped ladder with wooden steps tumbling from the chopper's door.

Her comrade mounted first as it reached their position, its pilot assaying to keep the ungraceful and difficult to pilot conveyance steady. Her blonde accomplice climbed up twelve steps, leaving room for her and her male companion to board.

He went first, imitating their confederate's actions. Then she boarded, leaving two steps below her, securing her hold on the cordage. The helicopter continued forward, taking them from the scene of the crime.

She reveled in the wind's presence in her hair and face because for once, she was not required to be ruthless here. In the air, she could relive her childhood notions of sprouting her own wings and take flight, soaring with the birds over the clouds.

Because in that moment, she was not the savage assassin who was named 'the Slayer'. She was just Lily Evans.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

A/N: Okay, so a pretty boring read at the start, but I promise it'll get interesting! I'm trying to experiment with a more serious fic and hey, I hope this turns out all right. Kinda irritating, isn't it? Me never saying who her two companions are. Well, if you've read my Lily, the Vampire Slayer fic, you'd know these two guys pretty well.

James' part is coming next. I'm still unsure as to where I should place Peter. I don't hate the character, though. IN my little head, I've developed this grudging liking towards him. STUPID!

Oh, well, please REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW 


	2. Chapter One

Deadly Pursuits: Potter and Evans 

**by****: Branw3n**

**Chapter One**

"Oi, Mark, I'm almost done here, how're the security cams?"

"Fine, Tad," the burly security technician called back to the tall and lanky Head of building operations. 

The Head of Securities had called both men into the Security Room to fix the various cables and wires that aided in the smooth functioning of the building safety and for the protection of the highly elite guests that frequent the structure.

"Looks like someone messed the cameras real good, though," Mark added as an afterthought, for he, not unlike all of the maintenance personnel of the Ministry of Magic building, knew that no one would be tedious enough to tamper with the building's technology nor magic.

"Isn't possible," Tad dismissed the idea with a wave of a hand casting it off as a capricious thought.

"I know it isn't," Mark replied, a bit cantankerously, insulted. "But there are some, mind you, _some signs that say that the computers've been tampered with."_

"Look, just get us back on line with them, there're some Wizards in the lift and they're a bit unsettled by being stuck there for fifteen minutes. Claustrophobic, I reckon, much like my dad and most wizards here."

Mark nodded, not quite paying that much attention to his co-worker when he went off babbling about who in the hell knows what. He typed in some commands and started checking the wires. They said it was a blackout, but those were quite rare nowadays and it seemed a bit too suspicious to him. Theirs was the only building that got it.

They'd already checked the fuse box and its wards and found no sign of tampering and quickly set everything back in order, their only problem was getting the security cameras back on.

He had a foreboding feeling that someone especially didn't want them to see something. 

"Done."

"Alright, check all rooms in the building," Tad said authoritatively.

Mark transcribed some more commands on the keyboard, viewing rooms on the enormous screens eight at a time. 

A few minutes passed. "All floors check out okay."

"Try the elevators," Tad commanded.

He nodded. He continued to tap in orders into the computer, attempting to bring up shots of the twelve or so elevators in the building. Attempting and failing, managing to bring up only about seven images onto the monitor.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

Tad patted him on the shoulder. "Guess we'll have to check those last five ourselves.

Mark grunted his irritation but stood to follow his supervisor.

*   *   *

"Here you go, Prongs."

He grinned up at his friend thankfully, accepting the offered bottle of Butterbeer. His gaze followed his friend's gait as the taller man plopped down onto one of the regulation wheeled chairs and put his feet up on the polished oak table, knocking over the can of soda he had earlier placed on the CPU which would have caused a catastrophe had his friend not instinctively caught the aluminum cylinder before its contents spilled onto the computer console.

He grinned. "I always thought you went into the wrong profession, James."

James shook his head, his unruly hair falling into his bespectacled brown eyes. "Maybe," he chuckled. "But I wanted to 'make something out of myself'."

They snorted concurrently, the thought of their mothers' expectations of them. It brought a wistful smile to both their faces. 

"It isn't too late to consider other career options," he tempted, smiling impishly.

The former Hogwarts Head Boy rubbed at his forehead. "Even then, I wouldn't give this particular job up for anything. It's much too exciting," he added the last part sarcastically, causing his partner to chuckle.

There hadn't been much for both Aurors to do the past few weeks. All of which consisted of them mindlessly sitting before their consoles, staring into them in a zombie-like state, bored out of their wits so far that even Sirius' usual antics couldn't cheer them up.

"Well, then, you'll be quite happy with this new piece of information," a voice from behind them called as a newspaper article was tossed onto the table before them.

"What's that s'posed to mean, Remy?" Sirius grunted as he took another swig of Butterbeer, turning in his seat so that his dark blue eyes could focus on the new individual's own gray orbs.

"Read the headline and you might just understand the situation."

"Don't be pert, Moony," Sirius made a face. "It suits me all to well than you."

James, who had immediately scanned through the paper, turned his attention to Remus. "What happened? Sheridan's been murdered then?"

Remus nodded gravely.

Sirius' eyes widened, surprised that someone would have the audacity to even think about murdering the powerful Assistant Minister of Magic. He was one of the most influential Wizards in their World, some say he was even more omnipotent than Britain's current Minister, Bartemius Crouch, Sr. He could comprehend with James' trail of thought, Sheridan was as healthy as a newborn Chimaera and just as bloodthirsty. He had been suspected of ordering the deaths of numerous Wizards who might have served as a threat to his goal.

"Do they know the means of death?" he inquired, brows furrowing as his eyes quickly scanned over the exposition.

Remus grunted, disdain certainly evident on his pallid face. "His bodyguards were shot in the head, died quickly, though. But Sheridan, on the other hand…well, he had seen the assassin, his position, cowering against the doors, made his fear apparent."

"So, someone really had it in for Sheridan, then," Sirius voiced, his disgust for the man perceptible as he shook his head, sneering at the article James had quickly leafed through.

"It says that the bodies were found just this morning," James frowned. "News _does travel quickly, now doesn't it?"_

Remus gave a snort of surfeit, something he rarely did. "Read the byline, then."

They complied and rolled their eyes in unison. "Rita Skeeter."

"I swear," Sirius growled. "That woman is everywhere."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," James scoffed, then looked up at Remus questioningly. "Or is there?"

"They haven't moved the bodies yet. Moody asked me to come get you both. He's been there for hours now, practically livid."

*   *   *   *   *

"Where have you two been?" Alastor Moody barked as he spied the three young men Apparate before him. 

All three took in his disheveled appearance. His hands were gloved, yet the disposable polymerized substance seemed to be so overtly covered with blood, one could not tell what their original color might have been. Flecks of the same substance were splattered around his face, hair and shoes.

"What are all of you three standing around there like idiots for? We're not paying you to look pretty! Procure some gloves and follow me."

They nodded and their eyes immediately caught a metal table where fresh sterilized gloves had been neatly arranged side by side. They quickly put them on and briskly trailed after their Commanding Officer as he headed towards the building's main lobby.

Turning the corner, all three of them were hit with a sudden sense of nausea as the strong coppery tang of blood reached their nostrils but years of training and field experience had nearly disabled that reflexive mechanism. They were faced with the sight of death nearly every single day of their lives, what with Voldemort's terrorist methods and political corruption.

Steeling themselves for the impending prospect that lied ahead of them, they were not shocked to see that Rita Skeeter's report had indeed been true. Two corpses lay beside each other, face turned sideways enough that all three men could witness the gaping fatal wounds at their brow.

But that sight was nothing compared to what the killer did to his real target. Sheridan's carrion lay, as Remus had reported earlier on, near the elevator doors, hands which might have been held up in defence now lay useless at his sides. An incredibly wide gaping cut where his heart might have been. An odd looking blade protruded from the exact same area.

Sirius made a disgusted noise, glaring at the goriness of the situation. James sympathized with him, his Animagus form seemed to have endowed his human self with remnants of its abilities. The same principle adhered with both him and Remus.

"Any leads?" his clear voice belied his revulsion.

He heard Alastor Moody's uneven and awkward footfalls approached from behind. "Diggory's checking with Security."

Remus took a step towards Sheridan's corpse when Sirius' hand shot out to restrain him. "I think it would be best if we don't obstruct the scene of the crime, for the photographers, you know."

Hoary and sparkling blue eyes settled casually over Moody. "Black's right, for once. Our squad's been here for hours, if only I could say the same for the both of you, but the Unspeakables haven't been here yet and you do know how they get when they find us meddling in political situations." 

Moody spat out the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth and a thorn in his side. Aurors and Unspeakables might have been forced to work on cases together but that did not make the two groups friends. Unspeakables thought themselves high and aloof, above everyone else. Those were where the rich wizards and witches sought employment.

James and Sirius chose to be Aurors, though they were offered positions as Unspeakables due to their families' positions in Wizarding society. They didn't want to have to sit back and observe situations from offices and busy themselves with numerous litigations. They had truly wanted hands-on fluency.

Moody took in the place one last time before ushering them out, just in time to vacate the premises while they had the chance for boisterous crime scene photographers pushed their way through the metal doors.

"Lupin, Black, I want both of you to interrogate the two Security Men who found the bodies. Potter, hallway to your left a flight down, meet up with Diggory and see what's keeping him. Take the Security tapes back to headquarters after you examine them."

All three nodded, hurrying off to accomplish their assigned tasks. James couldn't help but feel amused at Moody's distrust for copies. A bad case once, with tampered material that nearly cost him his life but instead he escaped with only his eye defunct.

He made his way down the hall then the stairs, his paces even with a learned languidity that he didn't feel nor thought about anymore. He had been taught in such a way. Forced calmness that his socialite parents had insisted etiquette teachers instill in him. He knew he was much luckier than most of his peers, his family being a prominent one with about three vaults in every Gringotts establishment in the world.

Though that family was gone now, as with Sirius'. Blood didn't matter if you were against Voldemort. It surprised both of them to hear that their parents were Unspeakables, covert operations specialists. Their reaction at that fact had nearly suppressed their shock at the news of their parents' deaths. James' parents had rarely been home throughout his childhood, the relevant periods in his life. All his essential achievements as a young child had been adulated by his nanny and his meals had been meticulously prepared by house-elves.

Whenever his parents _did_ come home, though, none of his daily rituals ever changed.

He paused before a slate gray metal door labeled 'Security' in clear block letters and tugged at the grimy lever, while removing his gloves, shuffling into the room and immediately spotting Diggory. 

"Potter, glad you're here," he greeted, eyes never leaving the screen where the usual grainy black and white footage played across the miniature television in slow motion.

"How long before the murder?"

"Been here for nearly ten minutes, should be about. Didn't want to breeze through the rest of it in case I miss something."

"Anything out of the ordinary, then?"

Diggory shook his head. "Nothing."

James wandered over to his side and trained his eyes over the video. A few more minutes passed and as he was preparing to give up, he finally caught a glimpse of Sheridan, escorted by two burly men and oddly enough a petite woman. All three were dressed in black.

"Skeeter's article didn't mention her," he muttered to Amos, then turned to regard the Security personnel who sat before them. "Did she come out untouched or murdered like the rest of them?"

Relatives and family of the slaughtered could sometimes request for privacy but with Skeeter writing the article, that just wasn't possible.

"I worked with the blokes who found the bodies. There were three of them, all male," he responded, shifting nervously in his seat. Aurors tend to make most Wizards uncomfortable. The man ran a hand through his cropped blond hair before continuing. "No one has seen her after the homicide. No body, nothing."

James nodded distractedly as the woman turned to consider the camera hastily that you could barely catch a glimpse of her features. The video died out into static soon after. 

"What happened?" Diggory barked, eyes murderous.

"There…there was a problem. The whole building blacked out, everything went haywire before shutting down. Took hours for the techs to get everything back in working order," the employee stuttered, blue eyes shifting over their faces nervously.

James could feel the man's accusing gaze and spoke. "We need that tape, no. The original," he added as he spied the man reach for an unlabelled white cardboard box beneath the console.

His mouth began to open in protest before James' steely glare silenced him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Diggory run a frustrated hand through his hair, growling to himself.

"Just three of them or was there more?"

Diggory shook his head. "Just the three of them, Moody suspects it was a hired assassination. We couldn't find Sheridan's head anywhere."

"Trophy prize?"

"Most likely."

James nodded in contemplation then turned to the employee who handed Diggory the tape. "What about the men who were supposed to be working in here during the time of the murder? Where are they?"

The man frowned. "Me and the boys think that whoever was to be here took their break early. Nobody takes this assignment seriously. We couldn't find them, though, when you Aurors requested for them. Doubtless that they're hiding somewhere out of the building, cowering."

James didn't appear to have been listening, though as he paced around the perimeter of the room. "What's in here, then?" he asked, tapping his fingers on the wood paneling. 

"Broom closet."

He turned to Amos, who was hunched over a console, reviewing the tape once again. "Anybody else been in here other than you?"

Diggory shook his head, dark blonde hair flying into his eyes, knowing that Potter meant other Aurors. "Just been me and Travis here," he tilted his head in the security personnel's general direction.

"Checked the premises yet?"

Another imperceptible shake of the head.

James nodded, more to himself than to Diggory, composing himself as he removed his wand from the latch on his belt. He jiggled the knob, finding it locked. He felt Diggory approach from behind him. He took a step backwards and raised his foot, kicking the door in.

No need to warn whoever might have been lurking in there of his presence through a yelled spell. He pointed his wand in the darkened room, eyes training themselves to the gloom as he stepped into the miniscule room. Shuffling feet from behind indicated Diggory's following suit. 

Once he was assured that nothing in the room was mobile he quickly muttered, "Lumos." His wand ignited in an instant, as was expected. He snarled as he glimpsed of the two corpses lying on the ground, blood oozing from their cracked skulls.

Diggory swore, turning the bodies over to obtain a glance of the men. He read their tags out loud. "Merlin! They're those personnel Travis' been talking about."

James, on the other hand, walked towards a sleek black device, aware of the muted repetitive sounds emanating off of it. He put on the polymer gloves, opening the laptop computer, eyes widening at the electronic beeps of numbers ticking down on the screen. His eyes trailed over to a piece of wire attached to the console and onto a clumsy square box with a bright red face-plate, whose numbers were in synch with the countdown on the computer.

"Diggory, get out of here!" he yelled, sweat trickling down his temples and onto his neck. Eight seconds, not enough time to cast the complicated time-stop spell nor dismantle the box and cut the wires. He turned to Amos, who stood frozen in place, bearing a perplexed appearance.

He took Diggory by the scruff of his robe and shoved him into the main room none-too-gently and grabbed Travis' arm and shoved them both out of the room, all the while mentally keeping track of the amount of time they had before the bomb set off.

It wasn't powerful enough to destroy the entire building, it's minute size was evidence to that fact, it would execute a secondary type blast, just powerful enough to demolish the Security Room.

He was right.

He and Diggory covered Travis, Auror training taking over in this emergency situation. The back draft, though, was strong enough to throw all three of them to the ground, their heads nearly scraping the adjacent wall.

James, who was closest to the Security Room, his tall frame nearly completely shielding both his companions, was the one who was on the receiving end of the blast. He lay on the marble ground, unconscious, amidst thunderous screams, oblivious by the chaos that surrounded him.

*     *     *     *     *

Moira O'Monaghan approached the glass encased office, plastering a sympathetic smile on her tanned features while still retaining her business-like attitude. She consciously tugged at her sun-streaked blonde hair, which was in its usual bun and adjusting the glasses perched on her nose, obscuring clear blue eyes before rapping on the door and pushing it open.

The sight that greeted her was utter bedlam, expertly concealed by blinding mauve blinders and the auburn head bent over a laptop computer, Wizco's latest model.

"Just about Moira," Atlanta Fairstrider called from behind the sleek gray screen, gray eyes still focused on the console, slim fingers expertly tapping a masterpiece on the keyboard.

"Five minutes, Lan," she reminded, her voice teasing yet serious all at once. She made to leave the disorganized workplace but Atlanta's voice halted her.

"Moi, that lad you've been seeing, who is he?"

She froze, turning around to re-address the writer. "Why? You've a crush on him?"

"Who wouldn't?" Fairstrider's posh socialite voice rang. "He's absolutely yummy."

"That's disgusting," Moira snorted, her brogue a manifesting in her words.

"Ah, so you aren't shagging him, then. Mind if I do?"

"Blow yer mind out, then," she called back sarcastically, preparing to leave once more, her voice once more the bred British accent she had conceal her ancestry. "Just don't let it interfere with your work. Witch Weekly readers would absolutely strangle this publication if we forego producing your articles."

Atlanta's tittering laugh followed her out before she firmly shut the door behind her.

God, she hated that woman, being her editor didn't help make getting to know her a less arduous task.

Moira proceeded to do her normal rounds, which she often conducted right before the writers' deadlines. She herself frequently contributed her opinions to the magazine's criticism page but she was intelligent enough to start her work right away, when their normal mail-in reviewers were a no-show.

Approaching one of their regular gossip columnists, she was halted by her ringing phone. She searched for her cell phone in her jacket pocket before processing the ring tone, it was the other line, the private secure one and only three other people knew about its existence.

She reached out behind her, fishing the model out of the band of her skirt, speedily punching on the green button. "O'Monaghan," she answered clearly.

"They've found the bomb."

Her face was an indifferent mask. She shut the phone, knowing the voice on the other line had hung up as well. The conversations that were conducted on this line were curt and frank.

So, the Aurors had finally found the bodies, they'd suspect foul play but have no suspects. They wouldn't perceive the true target until the next hit, and it was to be soon.

Resuming her route, a thought formed in her mind.

Let the games begin.

*     *     *     *     *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to all my reviewers, your comments were really great and comforting. Sorry this chapter took so long, I really don't know that much about Security Cams, timed explosives and the like, so I was a bit nervous about writing this, bordering on intimidated, really.

If you guys know anything about the above stuff, please tell it to me. I need all the help I can get. Oh, and please leave a **review**!


	3. Chapter Two

Deadly Pursuits: Potter and Evans 

**by****: Branw3n**

**Chapter Two**

Fatigue gnawed at her bones and she interlaced her fingers before her and stretched out her overtaxed muscles, shaking her head from side to side trying to rid her neck of the ever-insistent cramps. She frowned as she cracked her knuckles, an old habit she had yet to purge from herself.

She covered a yawn with a hand, purple painted fingernails catching beams of light from the fluorescent tube above her which served its purpose well, giving off enough of the suitable amount of light she needed in her work environment.

She had refused to work in one of those stuffy inappropriate cubicles the Prophet provided for the writers under its employ. Preferring to toil in the comfort of her own flat, Arabella Figg had to endure the lack of consistent nagging from editors and notwithstanding her pristine reputation as one of the Prophet's best investigative journalist, she was rather irresponsible and though she meticulously researched her projects the moment she received her assignment, she usually put off writing the final draft until a day or so before deadline.

As one of the Prophet's highly-paid weekly recurring reporters, she had an adequate amount of spare time, whoever planned the lay-out of the daily paper had either thought that her topic; mostly politically based, gossip or fact, it didn't matter, would prove difficult to research or just had no room for her articles other than every Wednesday of the week when Lolita Greenberg, The Daily Prophet's correspondent in the Opinions section, decided to take a day off.

Arabella slipped her feet into cushioned bright pink bunny slippers and vacated the leather armchair in which she had occupied and half-closed her laptop, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with the fingers of one hand while the other reached up and removed the pins from her chocolate brown curls as she trotted into the kitchen area of the apartment she had occupied since she graduated from her school, Hogwarts.

She took out a carton of milk from the refrigerator and headed for the sink, intent on obtaining a glass but still unfazed as she found the dish dryer void of any kitchenware. She allowed her eyes to rest on the sink piled with dozens of unwashed dishware. She shrugged it off and she retreated to the bar area, seating herself on a swivel chair and taking a large gulp of milk from the carton in one swift movement.

Multitasking was her middle name.

She stared out at the urbanized expanse before her. The view represented more than half of her rent but it didn't matter to her. It was a small price to pay to be situated in the heart of the business center of Britain's Wizarding World.

Hundreds of ostentatiously dressed witches and wizards roamed the streets while others, though similarly attired but in more muted colors, rushed off to their respective places of employment.

She sighed resignedly, relieving herself from the stool, exited the kitchenette and into the living room. She draped herself across a white leather divan and flipped on the television with her wand, uninterestedly flipping channels, through music channels, over-dramatised soaps and finally settling on WNC, Wizarding News Corporation.

A slow grin spread over her classic features. Pictures of the Assistant Minister of Magic's death was splashed behind enchanted blonde, Anna Meier, half a dozen Aurors milling about in the picture, five of them young and rather good-looking while the other had his silvery-gray mane pulled back behind him while a charmed sapphire-colored eye rolled about crazily in its socket, deeply contrasting with the dull pink gash that surrounded it.

Moody's directing the investigation only confirmed the gravity of the situation. Good. Though the media attention was in no way needed, it served as a plausible distraction. Besides, it only served as some tragedy that would keep her political gossip column from complete extinction. The British Ministry of Magic was a tedious lot, all pomp and proper. Sheridan had been by far the most controversial of them.

Rising from the slums of England's pristine Wizarding Society, who turned their noses down beneath those of their station, he later earned a scholarship from a prestigious Wizarding school, earned his tuition money for Magical College by working as an errand boy for a Wizarding Law Firm and climbed up the political ladder in no less than five years.

He was their wonder boy, though he did well to hide his past until after he had been designated his position. But Arabella did know, from various unnamed sources and through her own decisive and resolute investigations, that he was dealing in some very illegal and irrefutably criminal commerce, both Muggle and Magically related.

She snorted as Meier enumerated all of Sheridan's qualities, which were all a truckload of shit. If they only knew what she had stored in those micro disks stacked under her work desk, in an enchanted safe.

Rolling her eyes as she viewed the insipid blonde dab at her eyes with a green silk handkerchief, she resumed her position before her console, fingers poised above the keyboard, her mind rapidly calculating the hours of sleep she would waste if she decided to scrap her current story; Ludo Bagman's gambling habits and how his wife was ready to leave him, for this current intrigue. The rumor mills would be spinning out of hand with this piece of news, the Wizarding World left staggering and if she did manage to reveal some piece of sordid information to it, her boss would surely reward her with a hefty sum wired to her bank account.

Decided, she highlighted the entire page, finger poised over the delete button, when her two-way rang. Grumbling to herself, she scooped up her wand and summoned the slim purple communicator, deftly snatching it out of the air with one hand, flipping it open when she realized that it wasn't on.

Grumbling to herself, she quickly saved the data she had just recently keyed in and digitally owled it to her editor, leaving the Sheridan issue for next time. It would have been the chance of a lifetime but duty called. After tomorrow, the news would have been overpublicized and her story might have been stale by then but she had no doubt that her nuggets of data were unknown to any reporter save herself.

And if her editor refused her story, then she'd just take it to the paper's editor-in-chief and plead her case, well, not exactly beg. She had dated him a couple of times and if he did decided to decline, then all she would have to do in exchange for that byline would be a few sexual favors she was more than willing to give.

She had an old score to settle with J. Elliot Sheridan. She had once been an investigative reporter at the peak of the media circus he had created and he happened to offer her a private meeting, after the press conference his press officer had arranged.

She wasn't gullible, neither was she then but she knew that it was a too immense opportunity to pass up and if he did try anything on her, she could defend herself.

And he did.

He cornered her in his office and tried to rape her. She left him with a slap to his face, a knee to his groin and scarred his shoulder with her nails as she removed a can of Mace, a Muggle product but useful nonetheless, and sprayed it over his face, managing to distract him as she walked away with a stack of important looking files from his private safe.

She walked to her bedroom, picked up her sleek silver mobile and answered it.

There was no room for niceties while this mobile was utilized. There was barely room for her to get a word in edgewise. It was a secure line yet one can never be too cautious around Magical beings.

"Six-thirty," the caller rasped in a strong, dark, accented voice. 

She clicked off, not wanting to be the one who was to be left hanging. Her red lips quirked up into a tiny smile. Irish. Seems he was getting more in touch with his roots.

Grabbing a dark red cloak from her closet and setting a purple-knit cap on her head, she Apparated out of the room, sure to check her watch before she did so.

It was six-twenty-five.

*     *     *     *     *

He stared at the clock apprehensively, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief, cursing under his breath for the hundredth time. Just his luck. The air conditioning decided to break down at the exact moment that he decided to operate it.

Damn them, if he didn't love them all so much and if he weren't indebted to their father he would've left long before this entire debacle started.

He'd swear that that boy was his father reincarnated if he hadn't been brought into the world while his father still throve in it. He didn't share his father's looks but their fierce determination, cool demeanor and enviable imperturbability was utterly analogous that it scared him yet reassured him.

But he wasn't a boy any longer. He was a man now, had been for quite some time but it was hard to accept but not entirely difficult to believe. The young boy he used to bounce on his lap, amaze with parlor tricks and present various Quidditch paraphernalia to had grown rapidly since his father's untimely death.

He had to learn responsibility at a young age as well, caring for two girls no younger than himself. He shook his head as the tall young man proceeded to light a cigarette and inhale deeply.

"Those'll probably kill you, Rom," he admonished, though lightly. One can never be too cautious around him.

Golden-brown eyes glittered back from the shadows that hid his face. "That's what's so great 'bout our kind, Pete. I smoke a pack o'these a day an' my lungs'll never know the difference."

Peter frowned, running a hand through his already thinning hair. He was years past his prime but that boy always made him wonder. He was a constant enigma from the day Richie Evans brought him home, declaring the boy as his child and Peter as his Godfather. Richie had always wanted a son, an heir to continue the vast empire which he had created.

But Peter knew what the man had truly sought. Immortality. A child to carry his name, a son he could teach the ways of his business, someone he could trust entirely.

Someone he could be proud of, one he could shape in his own image.

And Rom was just that, as far as Peter knew. The same outwardly cocky attitude that hid the calculating mind locked behind a roguish bearing. But he was near certain that there was more to Rom than being Richie Evans' clone.

"Careful. One day you might just let that brogue of yours slip and you'll be in a real mess."

He smirked malevolently as he took another long drag.

"What time are they supposed to be here, boy?"

Rom's feral eyes narrowed at the slight insult before replying. "Six-thirty. They've a minute."

Pete nodded before reaching under his desk of polished redwood and retrieving a bottle of whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he didn't bother with a glass, though he did keep some in store. He took a long swig before setting the glass container down with a thud.

"Is there anything new our current client requires us to do?"

The boy was now ridiculing him. Pete was indisputably positive that he wouldn't let the 'boy' remark go without a comment. His brogue had now disappeared to be replaced with a thick aristocratic Cockney accent.

"Don't play with me, Rom."

"I asked you a question." Implacable calmness.

"You know as much as I do that I cannot disclose such information without the others present."

He smiled. Pete would've sworn he saw fangs. That boy constantly reminded him of a fierce beast. Another one of his mind tricks.

A soft pop was discernable from behind the thick steel doors that served as protection. Unseen fingers tapped out a series of consecutive numbers on a digital pad as they heard the security system undergo its regular check-up. No one could enter the confines of the building without previous knowledge of its true existence. Various charms and wards had been set-up to conceal this place. 

The abandoned building's immediate interior, rundown, empty, like an immediately vacated warehouse with various types of vermin running about, was an illusion. Undetectable by even the most knowledgeable and experienced of their kind.

When entered, the safety mechanism would instantly start recording the trespasser's actions and would immediately require a blood sample to be cross-referenced with what was stocked in its memory bank.

Great piece of Muggle technology improved magically to have the intruder subdued immediately with magical nets if the forthcoming sample did not match and cast either two of the three Unforgivable Curses if defiance was evident.

Soft whirring sounds signaled the releasing of charm enhanced iron as the steel door slid open. 

Peter smiled as the statuesque blonde woman entered, her dignified posture immediately drawing both of the current occupants' attentions. She sat herself on a leather backed mahogany chair as the doors began to snap shut and immediately halted, sliding open once more.

A beautiful, if not harried looking brunette entered, her high-heeled sandals muffled by the carpeting as she grumbled to herself, taking a seat beside Rom, glaring at him to remove his booted feet from the couch.

"I'm glad that we've decided to come," Pete began, clasping his hands together, setting them on the desk before him. "Even late, your presence is still greatly appreciated."

Arabella felt his gaze rest on her shoulders and she transfixed her fierce gaze on him. "It was a few seconds, alright?"

"Those trivial moments could be the greatest essentiality in the face of nearly unconquerable jeopardy."

She sneered at Rom, who still lay sprawled beside her, arms nearly hanging off the couch, one foot propped up on the coffee table before him, the other bent on the couch, near her legs.

"Fuck off, you lucky bastard. Not as if all your bleedin' mornings're all wasted to put on charms on your face that take fucking hours to cast."

"Shut up, Cass," he snarled, his orbs turning an alarming shade of burnished gold.

She matched him, glare for murderous glare, her lips curling up into her own version of a scowl.

Peter sighed, sparing the blonde woman a glance. She was no older than a teenager, really, but her serenity was probably the only thing that had kept him same all these years. She gave him a quick quirk of her lips.

"Children, please. Let's leave the squabbling for later, shall we?"

The menacing sparkle in Rom's eyes gradually faded as they regarded the blonde woman while Cass folded her arms across her chest and sank into the settee.

"How're you doing, Lil'?" he asked, his clear fondness for her surfacing.

"I'm doing fine. A few writers are being quite a bother but Moira's alright."

He smiled at her.

"I don't understand why she's the blonde. Why couldn't it be me?" Cass grumbled as she took the cigarette from Rom's fingers and took a long whiff of it.

Peter groaned. "Then what would be the reason of such pretense in the first place if you were to retain something of your true appearance?"

She made a face, rather childish of her, as she finished off the cigarette.

"Now, to business."

Peter trained his gaze on all three of them, waiting for further protests and was quite relieved when none came. "Congratulations on your successful mission."

There were grunts and nods from both Rom and Cass while Lil's placid countenance stayed the same.

"Whoever hired us wants us to wipe out another one, right?"

"Correct, Cassie."

"Mind if I take a stab at guessing?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Another politician."

"Not quite but close enough."

"Politically connected or a relation?" Cass queried, smirking as she summoned the bottle of alcohol from Peter's desk and into her hand.

"The latter."

"Oooh, the plot thickens," she muttered, taking a large swig of whiskey.

*     *     *     *     *

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all my reviewers! You guys've really kept me going, albeit at a sluggish pace, but that's not your doing, it's mine. I'm too tired, I've got this pounding headache the size've a water melon.

Anyway, yes, Lily is that blonde girl up there involved in the conversation with Peter, Cass/Bella and the guy Rom. I really enjoyed writing the latter's character, he's gonna be pretty interesting later when I reveal to the world (yeah, right, like that much people're reading this) his alter ego.

I guess I've answered most of the questions in this chapter, the next one's gonna be more Marauders-based. I know most people don't like OCs and I'm sorry if that's turned you off from my story but you've gotta have 'em in these murder-mysteries/action-adventure tales.

Oh, and to whoever's asked, (sorry, forgot who *sheepish smile* for my brain's conked out, I'm writing this at 3 in the morning) the title's formatted the same way as the movie and I was looking to watch it for inspiration but I haven't really gotten around to seeing it and I won't be bothered to rent it because it's been said to be a pretty bad movie. So, the trailer inspired me to do this but instead of having James and Lily be two rival assassins, I made it this way, as a lot of other fics have been, that star-crossed lovers theme and good vs. evil sort.

I've only a vague idea about the movie's plot. Don't even know why I bothered to put that thing up but as you can see, I'm pretty long-winded, so...yeah...

Hope you've enjoyed, this, my cherished readers and don't forget to review!!!!!!


	4. Chapter Three

**Deadly Pursuits: Potter and Evans**

**by****: Branw3n**

**Chapter Three**

James Potter frowned at the warded transparent bag that Remus Lupin thrust at his face, quite irritated at the interruption. He looked up into his friend's somnolent visage, even more weary than usual, if that were possible, and grunted shifting in his seat to view the wireless, taking a huge swig of Odgen's fire-whisky, the liquor dulling the lethargy from his bones.

Some magically created alcoholic beverages derived completely different results in comparison to Muggle liquor. Some heightened the senses, sharpened them, and these were the cheaper brands. Odgen's was one of them. Keeping wizards intoxicated was an expensive business for they had stronger immune systems, as well as longer life expectancies as compared to Muggles, though these did not excuse them from the usual vices.

"James, I don't see why you're viewing this video once more. Moody couldn't make anything of it, neither could Sirius nor I."

He grimaced at Remus, shoving him out of the way with a hand, playing and replaying the piece of footage over and over again with his wand. Off to one side of his tiny office, a modern Muggle television did the same thing. He had loaded the video into the Wizarding Wireless, a crystal globe of sorts, and had reviewed them with much pensive consternation. He was nearly positive that they had missed something, he just couldn't put a finger on it.

"I suggest you redirect your much needed concentration on that on-the-scene evidence which the Department of Magical Catastrophes unearthed from us rather than maintain that grudge of yours. It was a bomb that you triggered but you didn't cause anyone any harm. You even saved Diggory's life."

That finally caught James' attention. "They usually withhold all scene evidence until two weeks after. What induced the change?"

The cause of the detain was supposedly for the examination of the evidence, putting it through various tests to prove its harmlessness or to disarm any spells cast before hand. Magically stimulated objects could also reveal their former owners. Though why processes that could be accomplished in a few minutes would be confined for half a month completely surpassed him.

"Moody called a few Junior Ministers, pulled a few strings and managed to acquire the murder weapon."

"This is what she…" 

"Stuck into Sheridan," Remus finished bluntly.

James turned to stare at the bag, as long as his arm but thin and sleek, a seemingly normal two-sided blade though the intricate designs on its hilt suggested otherwise. The etchings crawled up the steel on one side, indiscernible at first to his eye but quite clear when flipped over and examined.

It was the work of a true sword maker. There was a scarcity of such men in the Muggle World but that was explicable, what with new automatic and easily managed taking its place but it was a pity that Wizards ceased to produce such beauty.

Albus Dumbledore, his old professor, had confided his furtive admiration for such weaponry, calling them instruments in a fluid and ancient art, one of the oldest in the world and James could empathize with him. His father had an extensive collection of medieval weaponry, mostly comprised of their ancestors' armaments which he had left to James as stated in his will, along with all of his possessions.

"Not a type I'm familiar with," he frowned. "Mind clarifying it for me, Moony?"

Remus' eyes took on a glazed appearance, his lips tightening in concentration. "I've checked with the veteran Aurors, Moody and a few of the Unspeakables. They've all come to identical conclusions. It's a cinquedea. Rather ancient design, priceless; if auctioned off."

James nodded absent-mindedly. He was knowledgeable of Remus' enmity towards armaments especially those of antediluvian heritage and make. They were primitive and much too uncivilized, weapons used to slay those of his kind.

James slipped on a pair of synthetically composed gloves which he conveniently stored in his desk drawer and removed the sword from its magically enhanced plastic encasing and stood, drawing himself into an attack ready position. He drew this stance from memory; dozens of blademasters had seed to his training, as was a normal occurrence to all male children of status in the Wizarding World.

He deftly ran through an exercise designed for small, enclosed spaces, similar to that of his office, oblivious to Remus' forced reserve from the lycanthrope's position by his desk.

"Excellent balance, though too weighty for accurate results in besieged situations, and for my liking."

"So glad to hear your opinion of the murder weapon, Prongs," Sirius dryly called out from the hallway in which the office's doorway opened up to.

Remus let out an impatient sigh. "Come to suggest otherwise, Padfoot? I'd be more than pleased to allow you your turn with the evidence."

He made a face. "I was never too partial towards swords. Battle axes, though…"

Remus grimaced, then returned to the topic at hand, knowing all too well that while his two best friends were around one another, a digression from the subject matter was all too customary. "Any reason as to why you've decided to grace us with your presence, Padfoot?"

"None, really. Just decided I'd temporarily relieve the hideousness of this room and its present occupants with my charm and devilish handsomeness. Well, that and I've no luck in trying to find a possible angle on the motive of the murder. Moody thinks they'll strike soon, someone related to the prime target. Someone Sheridan was associated to. He thinks the objective is to eliminate Crouch but I think that we shouldn't examine this one murder too closely. Sheridan was some arse in his time, illegal business practices and all."

"You thoughtfulness never ceases to touch nor astound me," James rejoined sardonically.

"I try my best."

"Moody might be right, though," Remus interjected. "Kill Sheridan and Crouch and the cabinet will have to instate a new Minister."

Sirius shrugged. "Not enough evidence to confirm that theory. The higher-ups refused to give Moody permission to assign some plainclothesmen and Aurors to safeguard Crouch. No need to cause an alarm for the media to pick up on."

Remus shook his head in antipathy of the narrow-mindedness of those who had power within the Ministry.

James returned the object into the bag and sealed it once more with a spell. He slid it over the desk's polished surface before something on its hilt glinted and caught his eye.

He once again unsealed the sack and removed the item up until its hilt, examining it closely, holding it against the light. There it was, the slightest glimmer, shining gold.

"What're you doing, Prongs?"

"Did you see that, Moony?"

"See what?" Sirius interjected.

"That sparkle."

"Where?"

"Here," he pointed at the sword's ebony hilt.

His co-workers crossed the room and occupied the space on either side of him, both peering scrupulously at the sword.

A minute passed before both consecutively shook their heads.

"Sorry, there isn't anything there," Sirius piped up, patting James' shoulder sympathetically.

He shrugged him off. "I haven't gone mad, Padfoot!"

"I'll be swayed once I see proof."

How could they not see it? It winked back at him, clear as day, miniscule but discernible once inspected.

James glared challengingly. "I will."

"Get on with it, then, Prongs," Remus prodded, snatching James' wand from above a file cabinet. "Really, James," he intoned, exasperated. "Never leave your wand where anyone can have access to it," James chorused, rolling his eyes. 

"Yes, Professor Lupin, if you mind, I do have a task to attend to."

"By all means, get on with it, then."

Sirius patted James on the head condescendingly. "Don't worry he does that to me as well."

James shoved his hand away as he cast an extricating charm on the object imbedded on the blade handle. The golden nugget was barely the size of an eighth of the nail on a human forefinger but created quite a reverberating clamor as it clattered onto his desk. James then uttered an engorgement charm and it grew into a disk the size of his palm.

He felt Sirius and Remus press in from behind him, both aspiring for a closer look. From where he was, James could discern its composition, solid gold, judging from its weight and what appeared to be a long-stemmed leafless rose somewhat burned into its smooth polished surface.

"Any ideas, Moony? Padfoot?"

They bent over him, inspecting the object before Sirius snatched it from his fingers and studied it closely, eyebrows meeting as he frowned.

"I think I've seen this symbol before. Remember when I lost that witness on the O'Reilly case?"

His friends nodded. O'Reilly had been a supplier of sorts and one of his items for sale had managed to escape auction and decided to confide in them. They had interrogated her when she ran away, obviously recognizing one of O'Reilly's boys in the building while she was in Sirius' charge.

Had he gotten hell from that, though they managed to shut down that operation and recover the rest of the girls, Sirius had been set to file unfinished paperwork for months.

"Well, this thing'd been stamped on victims in about three unsolved cases, all had been high-profile political involved ones." He pointed at one protruding barb. "See that? There's a droplet of something on it, right?"

James nodded with Remus soon after, removing his spectacles from the pocket in his robe.

"Stands for blood. Bloody Thorn or somesuch with a similar name. Group of Jack-of-all-Trades, or so it seemed back then. Most of the Aurors working on the case either gave up, quit or disappeared. It's a cold one but could be useful."

*          *          *          *          *

Moira circled the park once more, as a dozen circulations were expected of her everyday jogs through the square. Blond hair up in a high ponytail, dove-gray zip-up sweatshirt coupled with black stretch cotton jogging pants and white no-nonsense tennis shoes stilled the breeze. It was near autumn and she was bound to catch a bout of pneumonia if she stayed out any longer.

She waved hello to the little girls playing by the swings as they gave her gap-toothed grins and stopped to exchange a few words with Dan, the crazy old street preacher she constantly bought lunch for.

Yes, even the pristine, near-perfect Wizarding World could not keep a few crazies or penuries out of their ideal society, same with crime, but Dan was a dear old sweet man and he did no one any harm.

Finishing up her twelfth circuit, she halted by some wrought iron benches to execute some stretches. She extended her leg over the bench's backrest and proceeded to reach out and grab her foot, stretching her upper body as she felt a presence appear a few feet to her left.

"Not much security, typical affluent neighborhood, lax security, might not have to out them if this goes right."

"Anything we might actually use?" She retained the ersatz smile plastered on her face while maintaining a look of half-interest as she continued to stretch.

He grinned, seemingly examining her in interest. "Penthouse apartment does seem to be receiving quite a number of visitors lately, some very crude ones."

"Not getting knocked up naturally, then, is he?"

"Natural maybe but not legally."

"So, it's Cass, then?"  
  


He nodded contemplatively, black hair glistening off the sun. The picture of some cynical businessman. "Yes, not you, do you understand?"  
  


"She can't handle it," she bit back, smile never faltering for a second, as she batted her lashes for measure.

"No."

It was derisive and left no room for questioning. She hated that tone of voice.

"Fine."

She set down her leg and began stretching her arms over her head. Her eyes lingered wistfully on his back as he turned to leave, making his way down the street and into a Ministry building.

She shook her head in concealed disgust. The nerve of him! He may be the head of their guild but he was still her brother and therefore had no right to forbid her from doing what they were supposed to do!

She jogged in place for a moment, sustaining the façade before taking a circuitous route home, in case someone had taken notice of that little meeting in the park.

She passed a young couple on her way home, pushing a tiny baby in a carriage, and it made her wonder what life would have been had her father not been what he was and had he not stipulated his expectations  of them in a will.

She hurriedly cleared her head of such musings. She hadn't had any other life than the one she led. Her schoolgirl days in Hogwarts had been a farce as well, a cover-up of sorts, something to keep them preoccupied and retain their visage of a normal Muggle-born household.

No, she didn't want another life, maybe someone she could trust outside the family, confess all that she had done and still feel loved, but that was an impossibility, a remnant of some vague childhood fantasy.

Well, if that knight-in-shining armor hadn't materialized by now, then he never would. Even a friend was welcome. Twenty-five and never-been-kissed. And Rom would like to keep it that way.

Damn him.

*          *          *          *          *

**Author's Note:** Rom had black hair as part of a disguise. That particular jogging scene was inspired by an episode of ALIAS.

I'd like to thank my quite inspiring reviewers, thanks for pushing me to continue this story!

**Q & A:**

**chickensoup3-** Lily's Moira O'Monaghan, she edits Atlanta Fairstrider's books, the latter's quite a famous writer.

**Doesn't Matter-** Lily's Moira. I wouldn't be able to stand her if she were Atlanta.

**Mysticpixie****- Lily's working for her own family. More will be revealed about them in the next few chapters. I think your idea about James going undercover in their group's really great! But sadly enough, it won't work into my plot because they don't accept anyone who isn't family or who they consider as family and won't turn on them.**

I'm looking forward to writing Lily and James' meeting. I hope I'll be up to it when the time comes.

And as I've stated in the previous chapter, I haven't even seen the movie and have no idea why I even put it up. It was my inspiration, espionage-based as it was, but other than that, nope, not in any way connected.

**Quack Quack 88- **No, Rom isn't Remus' brother or anything like that but he's a very familiar character. And thanks for your compliment!

**Thank Yous:**

**Anaxandra** ayumi-dono **bitch** Black Ice** Celtic Ember Chelsea** chickensoup3 **Daisy Silk** Demonstar **Destiny's Phoenix**** Doesnt Matter Emily Woodmark**** FaIrY ASpHoDeL jazmine**** Jinnikin kirbee** Lilyflower8602** littledarkangel **May **Mysticpixie** Pinkpanther **Pris**** punkkittin01 Quack Quack 88** roary14 **Sayo**** Scarlett*eyes silver-star**** The Devil's Maiden UnforgivenChild**** Zetta**


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